


Somewhere Here Is Home

by legoline



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Wincest - Freeform, post!Hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 07:29:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/legoline/pseuds/legoline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Hell, the brothers find each other through the darkness again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somewhere Here Is Home

**Author's Note:**

> One of two Wincest fics I ever wrote. Beta'd by the wonderful Pix.

Lightning illuminates the house, drowns the walls in bright blue batches that flicker in the dark, then thunder bursts down on them, metallic and deafening. The next moment, Dean screams in terror.

It’s a shrill sound that goes all the way through Sam’s flesh and bone. Some of the tones that Dean produces in his panic send chills down Sam’s spine. He never gets used to them. 

The first time Dean screamed like that Sam thought it was an unearthly holler, and in his fear he splashed holy water on Dean and recited an Ave Maria for good measure, until he realised that there wasn’t anything demonic in the room or in Dean. By now, it still scares the living daylights out of Sam when Dean starts yelling, but at least he knows that the only danger around are the images trapped in Dean’s mind. Doesn’t make things easier though.

By the time he’s unfolded himself from the couch and is on his way over to Dean, Dean’s stopped screaming, but even in the dark, Sam can see him shiver and hear his silent, desperate whimpers. The bruises and cuts are healing, but they’re still sore and painful, and Dean winces every time he does so much as twist his head. 

That’s why Sam sleeps on the couch, that’s why he barely dares to touch Dean. He can’t feel Dean’s warm skin under his hands, he can’t feel Dean alive and breathing, and it tortures him. Especially after everything he went through to get Dean back. 

Dean wasn’t sent back in the state the hellhounds left him in, but his body was one big bruise nonetheless, a post-modern painting of colours and shapes. Dean is healing, but he heals slowly, and the physical pain is nothing in comparison to what his mind does to him.

The mattress sags under Sam’s weight when he drops on it slowly and reaches out to Dean with two fingers, puts them on Dean’s shoulder so carefully they barely touch him. 

Dean’s shaking like a leaf, tucked in under the blanket; his arms and face are shining with sweat when another flash of light illuminates the room. This time Dean doesn’t scream, but he shuts his eyes tightly and bites his lip, and Sam can feel him tensing up further under his touch, until it’s like Dean’s entire body has turned to stone. His hands are curled to fists and the knuckles are bright white. His breath is coming in short, erratic hitches.

“Dean,” Sam says softly. Rain keeps slashing against the window, drowning his voice out. 

Dean doesn’t reply. He hasn’t said a single word since Sam came for him, even though Sam is sure Dean recognises him. He keeps watching Sam when he’s awake, follows every movement that Sam makes, and when Sam has to leave the room, Dean gets desperate, gets upset. Sometimes Sam detects shame in Dean’s eyes, as if he’s saying that he’s trying to be strong, but right now, he just can’t. As if he’s begging Sam to be patient just a little longer.

Sam saved Dean from Hell, but he never went into the fire and pain as Dean did, so he has no idea of what it was like, what exactly Dean has been through. What he’s seen. All Sam knows is that Dean jerks at every flicker of light, every loud thud, every sudden movement. It twists his heart and it makes knots tie in his stomach and lumps grow in his throat because never has he seen Dean like this. Scared, tiny, fragile. 

“Dean, it’s okay,” Sam says, his voice as calm as he can make it. Dean’s panicked whimpers fade away upon hearing Sam, and he eases up just a little, but enough for Sam to understand. Dean’s terrified, and he thought Sam wasn’t here when the thunder hit the cabin. Maybe he woke up thinking he was back there, and alone.

Sam knows what it feels like. He too wakes up sometimes when nightmares haunt him and, for seemingly eternal moments, he’s not sure anymore whether he got Dean out of Hell or not. Whether Dean’s still with him. It must be so much worse for Dean. 

“I’m here,” Sam adds. “Dean, I’m here. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Dean bobs his head into what Sam guesses to be a nod; his eyes are running wild like ping-pong balls but at last, they settle on Sam. Wide and bright green, fixing on Sam helplessly as if only he could make all this go away. Like Sam’s some lighthouse at a wild and rocky coast and Dean needs to find shelter from the storm. His shoulders are still shaking, but his jaw forms a hard, edgy line. Even broken, Dean’s trying not to cry. 

“It’s just a thunderstorm.” Sam swallows hard. He shouldn’t be talking to Dean as if he was a scared little child, and Dean should be snapping at him for acting like Dean has turned into a five-year old. But all Dean does is glance at him before he nods again, and a pain-inflicted sigh escapes his lips. 

The way that Dean trusts him so completely is a weight lying heavy on Sam’s shoulders. What if he fails Dean? What if something happens? What if he can’t fix this, even though he’s promised over and over again that he will?

He keeps his hand on Dean’s shoulder and debates with himself whether to withdraw it. Dean’s calmed down again. They’ve been through this for so often now that Sam just knows. If Dean’s back to only slightly shivering, that’s as good as it will get for tonight.

At this point, Sam should be crawling back on the couch—nothing he can do here anymore, really. No matter how badly he wants to hold Dean, curl around him, listen to his heartbeat. No matter how badly he wants to feel the touch of Dean’s lips on his bare skin. He’s kept his distance even though it nearly kills him whenever he looks at Dean, simply because he doesn’t want to cause Dean more pain. Because he has no idea whether Dean remembers this and _them_ , and until Dean says that he wants Sam near and holding him, Sam’s not going to push Dean into anything. 

_Go back to the couch_ , Sam’s inner voice tells him. _He’ll be fine for the rest of the night._

Instead, Sam remains where he is, sitting on the edge of the mattress with one leg pulled up onto the bed, and watches Dean returning to sleep. Watches Dean’s chest rising and falling, listens to the rain outside and the sound of Dean’s breath slowing down ever so much. Remembers the hellhounds tearing Dean apart because he can never forget that, the gruesome symphony of flesh being ripped open and Dean’s cries and the rotten smell of the creatures as they dragged Dean’s soul into Hell. 

His glance traces Dean’s scarred shoulder--even though underneath the shirt the bruises can’t be seen, but Sam knows where they are. He has memorised every inch of Dean’s skin. He knows the slope where shoulders become the neck, the shoulder blades that are outlined in the fabric of Dean’s shirt, the chest that heaves and sighs. Dean’s hair, tousled and damp. All this and more, all this Sam knows as well he knows himself, better perhaps. Somewhere here, with Dean by his side, is home. Somewhere here begins and ends all that he is and all that he ever was. Here with his brother is all that he ever will be. 

Sam chokes and his hand, still on Dean’s shoulder, begins to rub a small circle. His hand almost hovers over Dean’s shoulder, too afraid the touch might cause him even more pain. 

Dean gives another sigh, and Sam feels his brother relax. 

The circle widens, explores the edge of Dean’s shoulder blades and the slope where his spine runs down his back, until Sam’s hand wanders over Dean’s back timidly, always alert, always ready to withdraw. All Dean has to do is wince or jerk and Sam will return on the couch, won’t touch Dean again for as long as he has to. But right now, he needs to _feel_ Dean, even if it’s only like this, hushed and secret and slow. Sam’s fingers tremble as they warm under the heat radiating from Dean’s body and Sam swallows back a suspicious lump in his throat when they reach Dean’s neck, and Dean’s pulse is beating against Sam’s skin.

“Sammy,” Dean suddenly whispers into the dark, and Sam jerks back hard. 

The tremours in his fingers worsen, and as he fights back tears, the lump in his throat grows bigger every time Sam tries to choke it down. In the distance, the thunder is fading away. The wind no longer joggles the roof and the walls, and in the stillness, the rain pouring against the windows feels comforting. 

“Sammy?” Dean whispers again, his voice all rough and tiny, like it hasn’t been used in a long time. Sam brings his hand back to Dean’s shoulder inch by inch, and the moment they touch he can’t help it and tears begin to break free and run down his cheeks. 

“I’m here,” he says. He bites his lip and tries to sound calm, tries to surpress the sobs but doesn’t quite manage. 

Dean nods, and his lips curve to a smile. His eyes are closed and for the first since Sam broke him free from Hell, he looks peacefully asleep. Looks safe in Sam’s presence.

For the first time in over five months, since the hellhounds came for Dean and took him away, Sam lowers himself alongside Dean, lets his head rest on the same pillow as Dean. Takes in Dean’s scent, listens to him breathe and feels his own heartbeat calm down. Tears are coming freely now, but he doesn’t care because this right here, he’s been missing it so much that some days he thought he could never go on. That maybe he’d open his eyes one morning and would have forgotten how to get up, how to breathe.

After a short while, he wraps his right arm over Dean’s chest carefully. Dean winces when Sam’s arm touches his skin, but when Sam attempts to pull back, Dean’s fingers curl around Sam’s wrist, begging him to not take the hand away. There’s no force behind the grasp except for Dean’s plea for Sam not to leave him alone, and Sam could never withdraw his arm now, even if he wanted. 

“Okay,” he soothes. He leans in against Dean a bit and presses his lips against Dean’s neck, places another two soft kisses on the shoulder in between bruises and burns, and Dean tenses up briefly, before Sam rests his forehead against Dean’s shoulder. Beside him Dean relaxes until the last bit of tension is gone. Until there are no more hitches in his breath and the fingers around Sam’s wrist loosen, but Sam doesn’t take his arm away, keeps it where it is and where it belongs. 

“Right here, Dean,” Sam tells him softly before he too drifts off to sleep. “Right here with you.”

-end-


End file.
